Culture(d) Shock

Much has happened since my last entry. One important development is that I decided to focus my writing more on personal stuff than public consumption, which is why this blog is gathering dust. I’ll try to write occasional updates like this one, though.
Yesterday, the program bought us tickets to see a ballet at the Kremlin State Theater. This represented two firsts for me: the first time entering the Kremlin, and the first time seeing a ballet. In fact, my experience with any type of legitimate theater only includes watching a couple of performances at my university. Mind you, this lack of exposure isn’t entirely due to some typical chauvinistic disdain for the performing arts. Despite my pretensions, I’m actually a pretty uncultured person; I barely know my way around the table of anything fancier than an Applebee’s, and I’ve only worn one suit in my life: a tattered three-piece I picked up at the DeLand Goodwill last year.
Needless to say, I was very much looking forward to seeing my first ballet—and at the Kremlin, no less. The entrance was pretty heavily guarded; we needed our tickets to climb the stairs to the bridge, and soldiers manned a series of metal detectors. Despite my best efforts to find any and all metal knick-knacks in my coat, the machines went off when I walked through. A soldier told me to produce additional metal objects, and I quickly emptied various items, from a pen to a pocket dictionary to my student pass, from my many pockets. The soldier soon grew tired of my efforts and waved me through with an “Okay, okay.” Apparently, he decided that an actual terrorist wouldn’t be quite so bumbling. While I waited for the rest of the group, I watched the soldier flirt with the female patrons as he searched their bags—“Ha, I found a bomb, go on through!” “What’s in here, you little thief?”
We crossed into the Kremlin over a raised bridge and were eased into the theater, which was next to the entrance. I tried to take in as much of the place as I could before I went inside, but the walls and buildings obstructed my view.
We found our seats about 15 minutes before the ballet started. I gazed at the high ceilings and absent-mindedly wondered if I was sitting in the same theater where the infamous 2002 hostage crisis took place (later research revealed that it wasn’t). For those who aren’t aware of or forgot about it: in 2002, a group of Chechen militants stormed a crowded Moscow theater and took the performers and audience hostage, demanding that Russia halt the ongoing Chechen War. After a few days, Russian special forces dumped a chemical agent into the building and stormed it; the gas subdued the militants and killed over 100 hostages, far more than the Chechens had ever intended to kill. The Russian government declared a major victory, while survivors continue to lobby the state for compensation for the serious disabilities caused by the chemical attack. I tried to imagine who would make me feel less safe in such a situation: a desperate and hungry Caucasian gunman, or the womanizing soldier out at the gate.
Soon enough, the ballet was underway. They performed Figaro, which included the plots of The Barber of Seville and The Marriage of Figaro (I didn’t know this at the time, as you have to pay for programs in Russia).
I’ve tried to describe my reaction to the performance a few times, but it sounds gushing and gaudy every time. I’ll just say that the spectacle of music and human bodies had me enraptured for the entire three hours. The only thing that kept me from total immersion was a group of obnoxious Russian kids behind me, who talked, giggled and loudly opened candy wrappers for much of the first half. Anytime someone rolls their eyes at the sight of loud, annoying arrogance and accuses the perpetrators of being distinctly American, remind them that being a douche is sadly universal.
After the performance, we headed to the underground mall near Red Square for dinner. The food court featured some interesting looking Russian chains, but I decided I wanted something comfortable, so I headed to the Sbarro.
Sbarro and I have a long-standing love/hate relationship. I’ve never particularly liked their thin and often cold pizza, but their ubiquitous presence in every mall and airport on the planet make them a frequent destination when I’m feeling unadventurous or just plain don’t feel like having anything else. I got a slice of stuffed pizza and a drink for less than I’d expect to pay in the US, but when I got to the counter, I encountered one of the more irritating aspects of Russian consumer culture: the dogged insistence for exact change.
In the West, you can feasibly buy a candy bar with a $100 bill, and if the cashier asks you what you were thinking (or God forbid, refuses to take it), he or she is liable to get fired. In Russia, the bitter folks who run the registers do it with impunity, and one should not be surprised if a cashier refuses to take a 500 ruble note for a 100 ruble purchase. In this case, the young woman in the trademark Sbarro cap didn’t let me pay for a 166 ruble meal with 200 rubles; she made me dig through my wallet and produce 170. I took my food to one of the standing tables (tall tables with no stools) with bitterness in my heart, but luckily, the food wasn’t bad: the slice was stuffed with chicken and broccoli, and was pretty tasty.
In a metro station on my trip home, I saw a group of soccer hooligans run up a broken escalator, singing some anthem; I saw the same thing last Sunday, so I guess that’s when the local football league plays. I couldn’t help but smile at the spectacle, and I decided that I love the culture here far too much to let the occasional annoying quirk get me down…although I still can’t wait until I can just use my debit card again.